


I

by Anonymous



Series: want spun with the flax of sorrow [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Original Character(s), Snippet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:08:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24017248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: a look into what once was.
Series: want spun with the flax of sorrow [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1732381
Kudos: 1
Collections: Anonymous





	I

Even now, years later, he can still feel it.

The gentle touches, His hot breath on his own neck, and the near shameful look He gave him afterward, eyes still glossy with want. All of it, everything that was never meant to be his, gifted so graciously under tables and hidden in the veil of night. 

Walking the halls hurts. Every step a reminder of who he walked this path with before, every piece hung on the wall a memory. 

Every word He spoke had sounded out without flaw, tongue deft and His fingers even more so. His smooth movements once akin to the falcons that now presided over his long forgotten garden. He’d been given an eternity and still could not keep his roses alive past spring. 

Aimlessly, he stalked his manor, the realm he’d all but banished himself to, alone but not without the thought of another. These cruel musings of what he’d lost occupy his mind to a suffocating extent when he cannot find the strength to silence them. 

His feet guide him back to the library, those traitorous things. It hurts here, but pain has become the one thing his body can still stomach without the want of more.

He’d always teased him. Said his greed, his appetite for more, would put him in an early grave. Rest is all he can crave now, their banter turned sour with time. It seems to be all he can do these days is want. Want and want and want until his once mortal form feels weak and his greyed innards clench in grief.

The air is thick with yellowed pages and stained leather. Allure bleeds through, it’s scent drooling as he enters wordlessly.

It was here they’d frequented, left alone to their devices in the labyrinth. There was no privacy in their chambers, the walls were too thin and the maidens too nosy. No, only the sea of oak and dried ink could house them, only it had the girth to cover their ever expansive love.

He could recall vividly, once, the way He had pressed him to a forgotten desk in a far corner, covering him in His love. Traipsing the rows, his memories proved fuzzy. The mind was not built for a century worth of work. Most memories bled into one another, all except for those moments he’d been wrapped up in His ever fruitful embrace.

Another cruelty of eternity, he supposed, was to remember only what you wanted most.


End file.
